The Fix
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark takes the immersion course in prison Spanish.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

**Author's note**: Thompson, the cranky DA in this story, is from '_Justice_', a Gullsway Collective story. Thanks Judy and Cheri.

At the risk of issuing a spoiler for what follows, I have been advised to beat this concept to death with a stick, to wit: 'judicial stay' is the stoppage of an entire case or a specific proceeding within a case. In this situation (and I just learned this term today) it was _sua sponte_, or at the request of the court itself (i.e. it was the judge's idea). It's usually temporary, and granted in order for some other process to take place first. Three years of a TV program? Well, yeah, in this case. But a stay of proceedings is not intended to be a final resolution.

And, of course, whole thing with the pool cleaning and the riding shotgun had nothing to do with judicial stay. That falls under the heading of 'necessary plot device'. ;-)

Thanks to Owl and SusanZ for Beta-ing and Cheri for recommending the proper-sized stick.

**The Fix**

By L. M. Lewis

It was McCormick who had argued that the job was so simple that even a first-year law student could handle it, and the judge had put his own common sense aside in favor of letting him go alone.

"But it's not the U.S. Don't forget it."

"And my Spanish is marginally better than yours," Mark had grinned. "Besides, I don't get all huffy when someone needs to be bribed."

And Hardcastle _had_ gotten a little huffy about that last remark. But, in the end, he'd seen him off to the airport on Thursday morning.

There'd been a phone message later on that day, but it'd come while Hardcastle was running another errand. The kid had sounded absolutely fine, with some music in the background, to boot. He just left the phone number of the hotel, then said he was off to deliver the papers and would try to make the next day's flight out.

No answer to his calls back that evening. Well, of course McCormick would make the most of his forced layover. This was San Roque and he had angled for a beach-front hotel near the night life. What the hell, he'd earned it, Hardcastle'd figured.

And then, the next day, there was no call, and no answer on the room phone, or to the message he'd left in the afternoon. A call to the hotel desk that evening had produced no further information, by which time there was no one but the officer on duty at the very small American Consulate. He had heard of nothing in the past twelve hours except a young woman from Canton, Ohio, who'd dropped her purse overboard on a sightseeing cruise and needed a replacement passport.

Hardcastle had hung up after that last call feeling vaguely ill at ease, though he knew he'd catch hell-and-a-half from McCormick if he went any further than this based on a false hunch.

He sat tight, fortunately, and an hour later Mark had called apologizing for the delay, and griping about having to chase all the way across the island in search of Mr. Applebaum at his vacation villa, only to draw a blank; the guy had apparently gone off on a boat for the weekend.

"He'll be back Monday, soonest, that's what the housekeeper told me. So, do I stick tight?" he'd asked.

"Yeah," the judge'd grumbled, feeling a little foolish and hoping it didn't leak out into his tone. "What the hell. Stick. I'll call Deana and tell her about it. It's not like there's some kind of rush, as long as he gets notice of the proceedings. If he doesn't show, she goes ahead anyway."

"Okay, I'll just have to suffer through a weekend in an island paradise," McCormick had sighed with palpable insincerity. "It'll be hell."

And that was the last he'd heard from him.

00000

Saturday came and went, so did Sunday, and Hardcastle, having no intention of making the same mistake twice, let him be. On Monday he waited patiently until noon for further word, then impatiently for another two hours after placing a call and leaving a message. After that he waited worriedly for an hour and a half.

Then he called the consulate, same guy, still no reports of anyone in trouble. Next he called the hotel desk one last time, and was told his previous message had not yet been retrieved. After that he called the airline and booked a seat on the next flight out—Tuesday a.m.

Then he called Frank.

"He's in some kinda trouble," he concluded, after relating the whole tale over the phone.

"Either that or he's having such a good time that he forgot to check in," Frank said cautiously.

"Nope, it's trouble. I've got a gut feeling about this."

"But you said you thought that on Friday, and he said he was just trying to chase this guy down and lost track of time."

"Uh-uh. I was already right on Friday; it just hadn't happened yet . . . whatever it was that's happened."

He heard Frank's sigh. It was the kind of sigh that meant he didn't necessarily believe it, but he wasn't prepared to argue about it.

"So I'm flying down there tomorrow."

"You want company?"

"No," Hardcastle replied, after a moment's thought. "I just want someone to know where I've gone, and why."

Frank had no answer to that, except to ask for the name of the hotel again, and the telephone number. Then he elicited promises that the judge would call as soon as he'd arrived and at regular intervals thereafter—and that he wouldn't do any permanent damage to his protégé once he'd located him.

00000

San Roque was a green and gold gem in the midst of a turquoise sea and Hardcastle looked at it with a deep and abiding suspicion as his flight circled in to line up with the runway. It was already late afternoon, with most of Tuesday having been consumed by the connection in Miami, and the eastward time changes.

He couldn't control his aggravation at the customs table and was rewarded with an especially thorough search. It was almost dark before he'd negotiated a taxi, too late to visit the consulate. With a frustrated sigh he asked to be taken to the hotel.

The man behind the registration counter had to be reminded that there was supposed to be a person named McCormick in residence. The judge pulled out a photo—not a mug shot, something less formal, though he had a set of the others along just in case. The picture didn't produce any recognition from the clerk, and there was no answer when the judge had them ring McCormick's room. At Hardcastle's insistence the manager was summoned—a small, unctuous man who introduced himself as Mr. Esteban. He had nothing but platitudes to offer.

Hardcastle requested a room, then slowly turned and scanned the lobby. The elevator doors were just opening, disgorging a crowd of upscale tourists, eagerly heading out into the San Roque night. Clubs, casinos, there were plenty of each and thousands of people out on the streets, easy for one person to disappear and absolutely no good place to start looking once they had.

He let out a heavy breath and leaned over to pick up his briefcase and bag, only to find they had been snatched up by a solicitous bellhop.

"This way, sir."

He was ushered toward the now-empty elevator.

He nodded and started to stuff the photo back in his jacket pocket, only to catch a brief flash of recognition on the face of his escort. He took a closer look at the man—young, maybe twenty, with quick, nervous eyes and an even quicker smile. Hardcastle slipped the picture out again and offered it.

"You've seen him?"

The young man spared it only a brief second glance before nodding. "Yes, Thursday. Room 412. Only one bag but he tipped well."

"I know about Thursday," the judge said impatiently. "How 'bout since then, have you seen him around this weekend? With somebody maybe?"

The bellboy shook his head as he gestured Hardcastle into the elevator and reached to push the fourth floor button. "No," he said. "Not since Friday. It was Friday night."

"But he didn't check out," Hardcastle insisted. "There's no record of it."

"No," the younger man's smile had gone a little thin, "but he left Friday evening. He was with two men, very official-looking. Mr. Esteban was here, too." The bellboy jerked his chin in the direction of the front desk and the now otherwise occupied manger. "He just decided not to notice. It's better that way sometimes. But, anyway, the man in the picture you showed me, the man from 412, he hasn't been back."

"How 'official-looking'?" The judge asked grimly.

"_Policia_," the bellhop replied, leaning in and speaking on a half a breath. "Or men who wanted very much to give that impression."

They passed 412 on their way to the judge's room further down the hall. Hardcastle found his eyes turning toward it; then he cast a quick glance at his informant. The young man shrugged.

"It's empty. That's what Rosalinda said—she's one of the maids. Empty and unslept in. The bag is gone too. Esteban had it moved down to storage early Saturday. He is very happy that the room was paid for in advance through today, and tomorrow he will rent it out again.

"It's a crime scene . . . maybe," Hardcastle muttered.

"A room going unrented _is_ a crime scene to Esteban and the bosses," the man said knowingly. "And, most of all, they want no fuss, _comprende_?"

"Then why are you telling me all of this?"

"Oh," the bellboy smiled, "maybe you are a good tipper, too." The smile broadened. "And maybe I like a little fuss now and then."

They were standing in front of the judge's room now, and the bellboy opened it. He flipped on the light switch, and then ushered the older man in. Hardcastle stepped past him and gave him a good hard look before reaching for his wallet and pulling out a twenty.

"What's your name?" he asked as he handed it over.

"Ernesto." The younger man's face expressed quiet pleasure, rather than outright greed. "Olivares," he added after he'd pocketed the bill.

"I might need a little more assistance," Hardcastle asked carefully. "I'd like to retrieve Mr. McCormick's bag."

Ernesto nodded once. "I don't think that will be a problem." He frowned briefly. "Esteban doesn't think your friend will be coming back for it. Of course, if there was anything of value—?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "I doubt it. Some clothes, papers. I am hoping he might have made some notes. I'll need a reliable driver, too. Could you recommend someone?" He reached for his wallet again.

The bellboy waved him off. "I told you; it's not _always_ the tips for me. A quick smile. "Besides, I still owe you some change on the first payment . . . I have a cousin, once removed, who hires out as a guide. He knows everybody." He reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a small card. "You shouldn't offer Esteban more than ten for the bag. If you give him a twenty, he'll think there's something he missed when he searched it the first time."

Hardcastle gave this a thoughtful nod. Then after a moment he added, "Your English is very good."

"Hah," Ernesto smiled more broadly. "My uncle owns a produce store in Hoboken. I practically grew up there. Rosalinda says I speak Spanish with a Jersey accent." His smile disappeared into something more sober. "I hope you find your friend."

Then he gave one quick last nod of his head and departed.

Hardcastle let out a sigh. At least the bribery had so far been of an unofficial nature. He doubted that that would hold for much longer. He stepped over to the window. His room was facing the town side. The glittering lights of San Roque's nightlife spread up the hill for a few blocks. Beyond that was a further, higher hill with only a few, scattered lights. It cut a shadowy swath against the southern sky.

He knew well enough that the glitter was only a thin veneer clinging to the edge of the island. Everything else was darkness.

00000

The bribery of Mr. Esteban was done in a discreet and business-like way, a short while later, with Ernesto gazing on in distant approval from across the lobby and no one else within earshot. The ten was proffered and the bag was handed over. The manager kept his face arranged in a completely unremarkable expression.

Hardcastle took his prize, a small and familiar duffle, lightly packed for what had been anticipated as a short stay. He retreated to his room, opened it and tried to push down a feeling of ill omen—a copy of Ducat's _Constitutional Law_ that had probably not left the bag at all until now, lay on top; beneath that were clothes.

Below that, lying loose in a corner of the bag, was a St. Jude medal on a chain, unclasped—apparently no market for second-hand religious jewelry in San Roque, or maybe too much bad luck attached to stealing such a thing. There was no way to know. Hardcastle gathered it up. He thought McCormick must have had a fairly ominous feeling himself, when he heard the police announce themselves at his door, if he'd slipped this off and stowed it away for safer keeping.

Hardcastle put it in his pocket, then turned his attention to the folder that was tucked along the inside of the bag. It contained papers serving notice of Deana Applebaum's intent to begin divorce proceedings. He pulled it free. The corner of the folder was slightly crushed, he noted absently. _He needs a briefcase._

He pushed that random thought down as well. He opened the folder, studied the papers, found no additions or subtractions. There was a telephone number penciled hastily onto the front cover. Hardcastle pulled the card from his pocket and confirmed the match. He sighed again and slipped the folder into his own well-worn case.

Then he turned to the phone and, taking out the card that the bellboy had given him, dialed Henrico Olivares' number.

00000

The driver was a much older, slightly heavier-set version of his cousin, with salt and pepper hair and an air of dignified courtesy. His vehicle was a well-maintained, but aged, Buick Riviera. McCormick would have known the year, and probably the other specs as well.

Hardcastle hesitated for a moment; it was possible that Ernesto and his cousin were the problem, not the solution, but sustaining that level of paranoia would seriously hamper his search efforts, and he had a steadily mounting feeling that time was critical. He smiled. Henrico smiled back and introduced himself. Hardcastle showed him the picture.

"I picked him up at the hotel on Thursday afternoon," the man nodded, "I drove him around town—two houses, then a club and a couple of casinos."

Hardcastle frowned.

"Oh, no," Henrico shook his head. "All business. Short stops and much frustration. I think he was being given what you call in the States, 'the runaround'. Friday though," the man's smile went a little confidential, "Friday was different. We started out at the second house, the one where there had been no answer." The man's voice dropped and he leaned in a little closer. "I think, though I cannot, of course, say for a certainty," his eyes went upward in a look of absolute innocence, "that he may have gone inside that time."

"Dammit."

Henrico's gaze snapped back down. "Oh, don't worry; I kept a good look-out . . . and he was very fast," he added, in a tone of unconcealed admiration. "Then we went off to the other side of the island, where the old _plantaciones_ are, and some very nice, very private villas. Then back here and down to the harbor. He looked at a lot of boats."

"Was there any trouble? Anyone following you?"

The man shook his head. "He talked to a few people—the old woman up at the villa, a few people at the docks. Which is not to say that there would not _be_ trouble." Henrico added thoughtfully.

The judge's eyebrows went up.

"On account of the man he was looking for, him being, oh, what you call it, 'a big wheel'."

"Applebaum?" Hardcastle shook his head. "No, he's not. Oh, maybe damn well off by most standards, but he's just middling rich. He owns an accounting firm."

"And the two casinos," Henrico said confidently, "though I have not heard him talked about much—a private man. The villa is very nice. The house in town is not much, hmm, flashy . . . not _so_ flashy," he corrected himself. "And not enough security." He smiled.

Hardcastle blinked once, tried to readjust these facts what little he'd known about the Applebaums. Deana was a friend of Mattie Groves. He had gotten the impression that they were comfortably well-off, but there'd been no mention of international business holdings. He'd never even _met_ the husband. McCormick had met neither of them. He wouldn't have had any idea that two casinos were two casinos too many.

The judge put two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Some things he just knew, somewhere deep inside, without any obvious chain of evidence, and this was one of them. Casino deeds did not fall out of the sky onto the doorstep of executive accountants, and there were bigger wheels involved in this than Applebaum.

00000

Henrico took him to the local police station. It was late, now, but he said he knew one of the night officers; there was no one of importance on duty that hour. Hardcastle let him take the lead. The conversation moved into quick, colloquial Spanish, between his driver and the man behind the desk, but the tone stayed friendly and casual.

The judge could make out the bare outline of the story that was being spun—a young man with more money than sense, missing since Friday, a worried father. Maybe too much to drink. Might have gotten into trouble. Hardcastle just stood there, not having to work too hard at the expression that would be expected of a worried father.

The book of arrest records was produced, an old-fashioned ledger with one page covering all of the preceding week. No McCormicks, no Americans at all, according to Henrico's confidant. A promise to keep an eye open for any such wayward young man was given, and, at a nod from Olivares, Hardcastle forked over a small token of their appreciation.

Back outside on the street, Henrico's face had gone more somber. "Not the local _policia_," he sighed.

"Then who?"

"_Investigadores especiales_," he said, in a tone that easily conveyed both meaning and concern. "At least we hope. Otherwise, even worse, not the authorities at all."

"And where would he be taken if they _were_ special investigators?"

Henrico gestured vaguely. He might have been implying the bottom of the harbor, but a fixed and intense stare from the judge brought him back to his duty.

"There is only the one prison—"

"_Prison_? He only just got arrested four days ago."

"It is not such a big island," Henrico shrugged. "One prison for everything, trial or no trial, except maybe the drunks and the disorderlies." He sighed heavily. "Very bad place. East end of the island. It's called Roca Triste."

"How far?" Hardcastle glanced down at his watch. Then his gaze was drawn back up impatiently by the silence that followed.

Henrico was giving him a look of disbelief. "Now?" he finally said. "You'd go run up there in the night and pound on the door to wake up the warden maybe?" He shook his head. "You may get to see your friend sooner than you think, but then who will get _your _ass out of there?"

Hardcastle frowned at the obvious but aggravating truth of it. "I suppose," he said slowly, "it might go better if I make some phone calls first." His frown deepened. "You know somewhere around here with a phone that isn't connected to a hotel switchboard?"

Hernrico shrugged. "My house."

Hardcastle nodded once. "Perfect. I'll pay you for the long distance calls."

00000

He called Frank first. Based on personal experience, in just one evening, Hardcastle had already acquired some understanding of Mark's infrequent updates. Frank had not, and started the conversation with a string of invective fueled by obvious worry.

The judge took it fairly quietly—his own worry had a gnawing, sharp quality to it.

"I think I'm gonna need some back-up on this," he concluded, after he'd given a brief rundown on what little he knew. "But it'll help more if they don't see you coming." He pulled out a piece of paper he'd had the foresight to bring along, and read off the name and number of his closest contact at the State Department, then ticked off a list of the other documents he might require.

"A diplomatic pouch is probably the best way, once you've got it all together. Put your damn hardware and credentials in it, too. Then you come separate; I don't care if they know you're a cop or not, as long as they think you're off-duty and they don't connect you to McCormick. Pack some shirts with palm trees on 'em."

He listened to the silent pause from the other end. There might have been the slightest scratching of a pen against paper, but he thought that was probably not the case. It sounded more like the stunned, motionless sort of silence.

Frank finally cleared his throat and said, "You really think this is how you want to do it?"

Hardcastle wished Frank wasn't asking the same question he had not yet answered for himself. "No," he finally admitted. "It's a possible fix, one plan," he said firmly. "If we get desperate."

"I'd say that about describes it," Frank said dryly. Only someone who knew him well would have been able to detect the level of his concern. "This might be one of those cures that's worse than the disease."

"We haven't seen the disease yet," Hardcastle replied grimly.

00000

His other call had been to the American consulate. He'd heard the now-familiar voice of the night duty officer.

"Don't you ever get any time off?" Hardcastle'd asked in brief sympathy. Then he'd launched into the story, a slightly shaded version that emphasized McCormick's sterling innocence under the _current_ circumstances, and mentioned as many employees of the State Department in passing as he thought he could reasonably get away with.

Getting a Wednesday morning appointment with the liaison was remarkably easy. After all, it would take place after the night officer went off duty, so he'd been more than willing to oblige.

Hardcastle hung up the phone and looked across the kitchen table at his guide, who appeared increasingly pensive. "Don't you start on me, too," the judge said gruffly. "It's just one idea, might not even come to that, but if it does, it'll take some time to set up."

"Senor McCormick seemed like a nice young man," Mr.Olivares said tentatively.

"I never said he wasn't," Hardcastle replied gruffly. "He's just a nice young man with a half-dozen felony charges hanging fire. But I can guarantee you this is one method of getting him out of Roca Triste that the bad guys will not be expecting."

00000

Henrico took him back to the hotel. The lobby was nearly empty now and the night clerk had no messages for him. Ernesto was nowhere in sight.

He took the elevator up to the fourth floor and felt a brief urge as he passed 412. It was only a hotel room lock; he thought he could handle it; McCormick had shown him the basics a while back and had even made him practice a bit.

But he didn't have any equipment along and, if Ernesto's sources were to be trusted, there was nothing in there anyway. He thought he still had enough sense left to recognize a pointless whim when he had one. He sighed and went on to his own room, opening it in the more standard fashion.

He went to the window again, this time looking out, off to the east, as far as the angle of the window would permit. There wasn't anything to be seen there except for more hills and fewer lights. Roca Triste was miles away, clear at the other end of the island, and if Mark was there, it was probably the least bad possibility right now. They still hadn't ruled out the bottom of the harbor.

He tried to reassure himself. What the heck difference could a night make? The kid had made it through two _years_ in San Quentin with his head on more or less straight.

He turned back and pulled the telephone directory from the desk drawer, settling back on the bed. It was amazing how much you could learn about a place from the directory, he mused. He was prepared to wait out the few hours until his appointment at the consulate, and, anyway, he had no anticipation of sleeping that night.

00000

But he did.

Or, at least, he was asleep enough to be awoken by a small tap at the door. There was some light without much color yet, not quite dawn. He was still dressed, excepting his shoes, and was lying on top of the bedspread with an open telephone directory on his chest. He waded through a moment of confusion before everything came back to him. Then he struggled up stiffly to answer the door.

The woman on the other side was young, dark-haired, and dressed in a housekeeper's uniform. There was no nametag but Hardcastle took a chance and asked, "Rosalinda?"

No answer but a nod, and then she gestured him silently to follow, leading him down the empty hallway. She used her passkey to open 412, and they were both inside a moment later.

It was dim, and empty, and anonymous, just as Hardcastle had expected. He crossed to the desk and nudged the wastebasket out from under it with his foot. It was empty as well. He felt a touch at his elbow. Rosalinda had come up behind him. She reached into her pocket and held something out with a small smile.

Papers. Scraps, really. The one on top had obviously been crumpled and then flattened out. He took them from her eagerly. She pointed down to the wastebasket.

"Thank you," he said, "_gracias_."

Her smile went a little broader for just a moment. He reached to his back pocket and had his wallet half-out before he saw her smile turn to a frown of disapproval and she gave a little 'tsk' that was understandable in several languages.

Hardcastle gave his own little smile of embarrassment, and then accepted a pat on the arm from her and a nudge toward the door. He took one last look around. Nothing, really, as if no one had ever been there.

_A crime scene_. But so far, he hoped, only a kidnapping.

Rosalinda shut the door behind them and slipped away, silently, as soon as they were in the hallway. Hardcastle stood there for a moment, studying the papers in his hand.

The crumpled one was a receipt, something non-itemized from a local drugstore. He did the conversion—it had come to a little under twenty dollars American. One of Olivares' business cards was there. The last scrap was a little more mysterious, a printed number on a long, narrow slip of paper that was perforated along one of the long sides. There was nothing else.

He walked back down to his room, feeling a little disappointed. It was an odd collection, even odder for incompleteness. Over twenty-four hours in town, he would have made a few more incidental purchases. He knew McCormick. He had an almost unconscious habit—take the money out, pay for whatever, and then put the receipt in the wallet. Even more so on this trip—he'd told the kid to keep track of what he had to spend.

_So_, Hardcastle sat down at the desk in his room, laying the three pieces in front of him like some sort of puzzle—_he's sitting there, in his room, Friday night. A knock on the door. 'Policia.' What does he do? _

_He doesn't call you, no, that would make too much sense . . . okay, maybe it would have taken too long._

_He reaches into his wallet and takes out . . . these three things._

He picked up the card. That one made sense. Olivares knew where he'd been and what he'd done. That had gone straight into the garbage. Hardcastle set the card aside. Then he stared down at the perforated slip with a dawning of sudden recognition.

_What people do when they go on vacation—take pictures._

He realized, with sudden certainty, that he was looking at a photo claim slip. And then the other receipt must have been for film. Hardcastle frowned; there was a camera at home, had McCormick taken it? He doubted it; there wouldn't have been much need. _Then he bought one here, something cheap. _

Something had gotten interesting and he had wanted to take some pictures of it. And then, when the police, or the guys who were claiming to be police, showed up, he hadn't wanted them to know about it.

_Not a pretty girl on the beach, then._

He stuffed the claim slip into his shirt pocket and took another look at the receipt. He hoped, for simplicity's sake, that McCormick had taken the film back to the same shop.

00000

Mr. Hillsburg's office was done in tropical utilitarian, and badly in need of a renovation, as befits a governmental outpost in a country of neither military nor economic importance.

It stood to reason, Hardcastle thought, that the personnel would also be slightly out of date and a little run-down, as well. Hillsburg squinted at him and had pursed lips through most of the account. It was fairly obvious that he was going to have some words later on with the night duty officer.

"You understand," he said sourly, as soon as Hardcastle paused in the narrative, "that San Roque has no grounding in English common law. There _is_ no writ of habeas corpus." Hillsburg shook his head. "I really wish I could have that printed in nice big letters on the front of every passport issued in the States. People come down here and get into trouble, and start harping about their 'rights' as American citizens." He grunted in disgust. "Rights. You leave those at home when you come to a place like this. It's lucky for them that they are the cash crop down here."

Hardcastle sat through this impatiently, not offering the man any grounds for further rebuttal.

"All right," Hillsburg finally exhaled. "I can lodge a formal protest, make some inquiries—"

"No," the judge replied sharply, "I don't want that."

The liaison looked at him in puzzlement.

"What I want is for you to take a look at this list." He pulled the sheet of hotel stationary from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and slid it across the desk. Hillsburg picked it up cautiously. "You've had dealings with some of them?" Hardcastle asked. He got a nod. "I need just one—someone with enough authority, and honest, but not so strait-laced that he won't be willing to deal."

Hillsburg pursed his lips even tighter for a moment, studied the list for a moment, then set it down and tapped one name with his finger. "He's your best bet. Pasqual Narbona--Procurador General . . . and I hear he'd like to be el Presidente.

"Honest?"

"As honest as any other lawyer I've ever met," Hillsburg said with a straight-on gaze that never left Hardcastle's face.

"I'll take that under advisement," the judge replied dryly. "Can you wangle me an appointment with him? None of that formal protest stuff, just a nice friendly meeting between two members of the legal community." He was smiling, but he didn't leave very much doubt in his body language that he wasn't leaving without what he'd come for.

00000

Henrico Olivares was just pulling up when he exited the building. The photo envelope was sitting on the seat alongside him. Hardcastle picked it up and slid the pictures out as he climbed into the seat.

"He ordered double prints," Henrico said.

"One set for the files," Hardcastle said distractedly. "Always. You looked through them?"

"Yeah." The driver shrugged. "Boats, and a few with some men. It was what I said." He looked a little abashed. "I am sorry that I did not mention the pictures before. _Everybody_ takes pictures. It was as I don't notice anymore."

Hardcastle just nodded, still studying the photos with some intensity, as he separated them into two stacks. "Did you recognize anybody?"

Henrico shook his head. "Just men—maybe I have seen some of them around before, but no names."

"Did he say," Hardcastle hesitated here; it was almost as though asking the question of Olivares was an admission that he might not get to ask Mark. He took another breath and forged on, "Did he say _why_ he was taking the pictures?"

But all he got from the driver was another shake of the head.

"Okay," the judge sighed again and slid one set of the photos back into the envelope, the other into his pocket, "next stop is the office of the Attorney General, his name is Narbona."

Henrico's eyebrows went up.

"His office is up on Calle Verde."

"The _government_ is up on Calle Verde."

"Yeah, well, I have an appointment."

"Mr. McCormick was right."

Hardcastle cast him a quick, questioning glance.

"Oh, he said you were '_un hombre de la acción'_," Olivares smiled, "and if he didn't find Senor Applebaum, you would think he had been sitting on the beach, drinking the drinks with the little umbrellas in them."

The judge looked off, away to his left, and muttered, almost inaudibly, "I wish he had been."

"Yes," Henrico sighed philosophically, "sometimes that is how it is, we think we want something, and then we find out it is too expensive."

Hardcastle said nothing.

00000

Narbona's office had a wall of bookshelves behind the desk. Hardcastle saw immediately that they were the real deal, no matched sets in fancy leather bindings with pages that had never seen the light of day. And a quick glance showed a fair number in English, a few in French.

The man himself was reserved, with an edge of curiosity in his expression, and he launched the conversation in English right from the start. Hardcastle was relieved; intelligibility was a challenge for him in Spanish, let alone persuasion. He'd contemplated bringing Henrico in for the meeting, but didn't want to risk involving him any further than he had to, in case Hillsburg had been wrong about Narbona.

"Your attaché was not very clear about the purpose of your visit—something about an American citizen being held by us. I must tell you," Narbona said firmly, "I have heard about no such case recently."

Hardcastle gave that statement a quick, non-committal smile and steered the discussion elsewhere to begin. "Mr. Hillsburg tells me you are very progressive, interested in reform." As gambits went, the judge figured this one was fair-to-middling safe. He'd never met a politician yet who wasn't firmly in favor of reforming the office he hadn't yet acquired.

He got a benign, but slightly wary smile in return. The judge took out one of the photos—three men standing on a dock, conversing. There was a boat in the background, another man on the deck of that.

"Know any of them?" He hardly had to ask; he'd already seen Narbona's eyebrows rising in surprised speculation. The answer, however, was of critical importance.

"Yes," the man behind the desk replied with very little reserve. Hardcastle felt himself start breathing again. "That one," Narbona took the photo and pointed to the man on the end, middle aged, in a summer-weight suit and an old-fashioned Panama hat, "is the esteemed head of our police, Mr. Ruiz." Narbona had a slight smile on his face. "The others call themselves men of business." The smile had gone a little broader now. "They usually do not meet in daylight, so _openly_. Something must have been up."

"Who's the man on the boat?"

Narbona shook his head. "I don't know him."

"He's not a guy named Applebaum?"

Narbona's smile froze, and fell away. "You know of him? But it was just reported to me today."

It was Hardcastle's turn to go rigid, but Narbona did not string out the suspense. "Reported missing yesterday—a boating accident. An important man, he owns several casinos. There was a search. The body was discovered this morning."

Hardcastle tried to figure out how much of him had seen this coming, then tossed that speculation aside in favor of more data. "But he's not one of these men?"

"No," Narbona assured him, "but they are, perhaps, what you would call 'investors' in that line of business."

"_His_ investors?" Hardcastle asked, trying to control his impatience.

"If we knew that for certain, then we could have closed down his casino and charged him with—I believe the American term is 'racketeering'."

"You got it in one," Hardcastle replied. "But casinos make a lot of money for San Roque. Wouldn't there be some resistance if you tried that?"

"It's gambling," Narbona's smile was back. "Casinos make money even when they are run honestly. And it is not as if another buyer would not be found, perhaps a national."

_A grateful national,_ _that's one more vote in the next presidential election._

Hardcastle smiled and kept that thought to himself.

"So, Applebaum's dead, any word on who owns the casinos now?"

"The man has a business partner—another American. I am informed that the papers are all in order."

"You've seen those papers? Never mind," Hardcastle let out a sigh of resignation, "I'll bet they _are_ all in order, every 'i' dotted and all that—even if the ink isn't quite dry."

"But this," Narbona pointed to the photograph, "it might change things, if you are saying that it has something to do with Mr. Applebaum's death."

"Well," Hardcastle smiled again, thinly, and slid the photo back a little, towards his side of the desk, "that brings me to the main point of discussion. The man who is missing, the man you haven't heard anything about, his name is Mark McCormick. He took this picture."

"Ah." There was something in the way that Narbona said the syllable that made Hardcastle cringe inwardly.

"If he had been 'arrested'—if _that_ man ordered it," the judge pointed down to the chief of police, "what would they have done with him?"

He hoped that his voice had held steadier than he felt. Narbona looked at him intently, as though he was trying to figure out how to phrase his answer.

"Friday?" Narbona finally asked. "That is what Mr. Hillsburg said?"

Hardcastle nodded urgently; he knew a stall when he heard one.

"A thorough search was done for Mr. Applebaum." Narbona appeared to be going for reassuring. "We found no _coincidental_ bodies."

Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead. "Yeah," he replied grimly, "but when you found _him_, you stopped looking."

"It is possible," Narbona said quietly, "that they are being very careful with this one; after all, there must be nothing to cast suspicion on Mr. Applebaum's death." He cocked his head down at the photo again. "Ruiz is very confident these days, and prison is so much more convenient than an outright kidnapping—less expensive, too." He looked at the judge again, with an air of speculation. "Why was your Mr. McCormick taking pictures of our esteemed chief of police and these 'business men'?"

Hardcastle gave that question some thought on more than one level. He realized, after a moment, that Narbona was looking at him expectantly. He went with the straightforward answer, the one that was based on fact, not something deeper.

"There is a _Mrs._ Applebaum, back in the U.S. She's what you'd call 'a friend of a friend'. Mr. Applebaum hasn't been home much recently, and she was tired of it. She wanted a divorce. I sent Mr. McCormick down to give Mr. Applebaum the news, and the necessary papers." If there'd been a little emphasis on the 'I', he couldn't help it. That was still within the realm of fact. "That's _all_ I sent him to do," he added in more of a mutter.

Narbona nodded his understanding. "And Mrs. Applebaum, no doubt, thought there might be one casino for her, out of all of this?"

"Mrs. Applebaum had no idea there were _any_ casinos. She thought Mr. Applebaum was a well-paid bean counter, but still just a bean counter."

Narbona apparently had a firm grasp of American idiom. He smiled again and said, "I can certainly see why those men felt they couldn't wait until dark to meet. If your Mr. McCormick had caught up with their Mr. Applebaum, he might have started avoiding his partners, at least until his marital troubles were settled."

Hardcastle nodded grimly and then went on, trying to build on what was a flimsy foundation of hope, "It might be, though, that they aren't so worried about Mr. McCormick, now that Mr. Applebaum is gone."

"If they don't know about these pictures."

"Or maybe they do," Hardcastle said grimly, "and they won't kill him because they still want the photos."

"Five days," Narbona shook his head, "that's a long time to say 'no' to Mr. Ruiz. If I were you, I would hope they don't know about the photos."

"The prison," Hardcastle said firmly, "I need to get in there, to look for him."

"I can send one of my men."

Hardcastle shook his head firmly. "I need to go. I need to see what's going on. I need to talk to him." He'd tried hard not to make that last part sound like a plea. Then he changed tacks, "How far down do you think the plan goes? Are the prison officials aware of what Ruiz is doing?"

"Oh," Narbona gave a thoughtful shrug, "they may take a little money, and not look too hard at things, but I don't think Ruiz lets any of them in on his deals. They're not under his command. He probably would have preferred to keep Mr. McCormick in one of his own jails, but that might have attracted too much attention. He may have been too _noisy_. You Americans tend to be that way." Narbona was wearing a thin smile.

"But, you know," he continued on with an air of practicality, "even if we find him, there will be further difficulties. If I insist on the release of an American, there will be cries of favoritism, bowing to the overlords, all that sort of thing."

"Even if there was no reason for the arrest in the first place?"

"Oh, they will have reasons. They may not have bothered to fabricate a case against him yet, but they will put something together to protect themselves, if you show up and demand his release."

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded, "I thought that much. I had a little diversion in mind, but it requires _timing._" He gave Narbona a long, hard look before he set out his plan.

00000

Even with a great deal of encouragement, it was mid-afternoon before the papers could be assembled. Narbona insisted on sending one of his men, as well, a quiet man named Alvarez who looked to be both sharp and observant. Hardcastle was silently predicting an eventual position of _procurador general_ for him, at least, if not the vice-presidency.

It was Alvarez who translated Hardcastle's suggestions for the papers, and the judge suspected some further convolutions were added to a document that was already intended to send the reader into a state of relaxed boredom. Applebaum's death was a useful addition, and it was critical that there be no direct mention of McCormick's name. It was all kept very vague, very bureaucratic, this request from Narbona's office that 'all due consideration' be given to Solicitor Alvarez and his guest, in the interviewing of recent arrestees regarding the death of an American citizen.

There was nothing to cast aspersions on the warden and his staff, and their arrival timed late enough in the afternoon that the man himself might well be away from his desk—Alvarez had it on good authority that he rarely stayed in the office past midday. But it was all done with enough seals and signatures to cow even the most obstinate middle-level government employee into cooperation.

Now, though, on the ride, both Alvarez and Olivares left him to his own thoughts and, as eager as he had been to get to this point, he was going further with some reluctance. If McCormick wasn't in Roca Triste, then . . . _well, you haven't thought that far ahead yet, have you?_

No, he had. There would be more searching, and eventually an answer—either that, or the gradual, painful acceptance of 'missing in action'. The deepest oubliette in the prison could not be as bad as that. _Well, not for you, anyway. He might have another opinion about it._

He dwelled on that thought for a while—evils, the relative rankings of—all the way to their arrival. Henrico cleared his throat at the final approach, and parked a ways off, as the judge looked up and got his first glimpse of the place.

A motley combination of twentieth-century grey rested in the shadow of a darker, older construct that would have been suitable for holding eighteenth-century pirates—_until they hung 'em._ The whole thing was encircled with fencing, topped with a discouraging amount of concertina wire.

Henrico looked over his shoulder with a worried look and made the unnecessary announcement, "We're here."

Alvarez was out, briefcase in hand. Hardcastle followed, feeling his shirt already annealed to his back with sweat. There was a slight _tinge_ to the sun-baked air.

_Rot, that's what it is. _

The guards at the gate looked bored and sullen about the whole thing. They were so low in the chain that it seemed a mere lateral transition between them and the prisoners within. Papers were briefly examined and the two men were waved through.

A battered and faded sign pointed to the administrative offices. A battered and faded man sat behind the desk in the reception area. He looked disinterestedly at the papers and made a phone call. So far it was all within the realm of tedium and routine.

They were handed over to a small, dark, uniformed man of indeterminate age. He did not even ask to see the papers, leading them down the hall and through two locked doors into an older, stone-paved hallway. Steps, down further, then another door that led into a noisy passageway with a barred door on ether side.

Alvarez leaned over and murmured, "Holding cells, recent detainees."

Hardcastle leaned forward, eager and anxious. The room beyond the right hand door was lined with bunks, eight beds, six men within, no McCormick. He glanced aside to Alvarez and shook his head surreptitiously. They repeated the process on the left—eight more men.

Hardcastle pushed down an unfamiliar feeling of panic. Alvarez put one hand on his arm and then gave their guide a hard look.

"_El otros,_" Alvarez said, with a sudden sharpness that surprised the judge. It hadn't come across as a question, more like a statement of fact—there were others and he intended to see them.

Their guide fumbled for a moment, but obviously had no intention of putting up much of a fight. Alvarez didn't waste any more words. He merely stared him down. Hardcastle had him pegged for the vice presidency, at least.

Two more doors, another flight down. All windows had been left behind one level up, and the smell, merely a suggestion before, was now an almost palpable miasma. The guard muttered something apologetic in Spanish. Alvarez grunted; he might have been trying to hold his breath. Hardcastle caught a sideward glimpse and thought he looked a little appalled.

The last half flight had the uneven, worn feel of very old stone, though there wasn't enough light to see the surface—only a bare bulb in a fixture, informally fastened to a wall that predated electricity by at least a hundred years. They reached the bottom, and turned a sharp corner, now going single-file, following their guide, who had removed a flashlight from his belt and was using it to show the way.

In what had at first seemed an oppressive silence, they could now hear rustling sounds, probably nothing human, and then some very low muttering in Spanish, a rasping breath, a cough. Silence again.

Their guide stopped alongside a series of doors, dark scarred wood, solid, except for a narrow opening along the bottom, most likely to allow food to be passed in. Each one was so close to the next that it did not seem possible that they connected to rooms. There was no need for keys; each had a deadbolt on the outside.

The guard fumbled with the first, obviously rusty and seldom used. Hardcastle edged forward, and had to resist the urge to help him. He finally got it unwedged and pulled the door back slowly, as if something dangerous might be within.

Though it had not seemed possible, the smell became suddenly worse. It was black within, and looked not much larger than a crypt. The guard raised his flashlight and shone it into the narrow space.

The man at the far end was sitting, hunched on the floor, in jeans and a t-shirt—both filthy. As the beam crossed him, he gasped and buried his face in his arm. Hardcastle reached reflexively for the flashlight and forced it down. The light reflected for a moment off a battered metal plate lying just inside the door. Rice and beans—it looked untouched. Mostly. Something shining brown, and several magnitudes larger than an ordinary cockroach, wandered insolently away from it.

The guard said a word in Spanish that sounded mildly disgusted, then brought his boot down on the thing with an audible crunch. Hardcastle wasn't watching; his eyes were still fixed on the man, still huddled, unmoving, now in shadow. He heard some words muttered so softly that he could not make them out. It was entirely a monologue and the tone didn't sound completely rational for the circumstances.

Hardcastle wasn't sure if their guide spoke English, though he thought it was a good possibility that he did not. He chose his next word carefully, hoping that the vernacular would be obscure enough. "Kiddo?"

The head lifted. It was pretty obvious that the eyes that looked up from under the matted hair weren't functioning very well, but he was trying, squinting. He dragged one arm across them again, as if that might help.

Then he smiled. It was only the briefest of expressions, and might not have been entirely rational either, but he'd done it, and that was the most Hardcastle figured he could hope for at this point. He would have preferred a few words—even 'What the hell took you so long?'—but maybe McCormick had a notion that it wasn't safe to talk freely yet.

_Maybe._

But the judge hadn't thought through to this next part, with Alvarez pulling firmly on his arm and the guard looking at him, puzzled and impatient, and no chance to explain what it _meant_, that he was stepping back out of the cell, and letting the door swing shut again on the darkness. What could he have said?

_Tomorrow._

But even that one word might have endangered the whole thing. He put one hand, palm flat, up against the door, as Alvarez went through the motions with the guard at the next cell. He heard nothing more from within.

00000

"I should have talked to him," Hardcastle said, for at least the third time, on the way back to town. "We could have had them pull him out. We could have _interviewed _him."

"No, we couldn't," Alvarez insisted calmly. It was at least the third round for him, too, but he was showing remarkable patience. "You yourself said we could not draw any attention to him. One word from that guard to someone in that office upstairs, and your friend might not be there tomorrow."

The tone was reasonable, but the implications spun out to another level of worry. "We ought to have taken him, right then," Hardcastle said stiffly. "Tomorrow is too long."

"We had no legal standing to remove him. There were guards. If we had failed, we would have gotten no second chance."

They settled into silence, Hardcastle hardly noticing as they approached the lights at the edge of the town. They deposited Alvarez back at the building on Calle Verde, with the meeting time set for the next day.

"Don't worry," the man said. "It's a good plan, crazy perhaps, but I think it will work." He stepped away from the car.

Henrico checked his watch, then cleared his throat lightly. "You said your friend the policeman is coming in on the afternoon flight?"

Hardcastle nodded. "He knows where to go." Then he sank back into silence.

Henrico said nothing more as he drove him back to the hotel.

00000

Hardcastle didn't need to inquire. Harper was in the lobby, at the desk, in a casual shirt and pants, looking every bit the tourist. Only his eyes might have given him away. They were a little too narrow and knowing.

The judge lingered near the elevators. He listened to Frank object to a second floor room—too much street noise. Something higher up, perhaps? The clerk reached for a fourth floor key that met with Harper's approval. The lieutenant had done it all in a lazy American drawl that seemed to assume that he had no further interests beyond a good night's rest after a long evening out on the town.

Harper turned away, key in hand, and already had his bag in his grip before an eager bellboy could move into position. "I'll handle it," Harper said with a smile that had a little edge to it. His eyes swept by Hardcastle without even a moment's pause in acknowledgement. Then he strode toward the elevator.

The judge reached out to summon it, and they both stepped on. "What floor?" Hardcastle inquired politely.

"Four," Harper replied without a sideward glance.

The doors closed as he pushed the button.

"Any luck?" Frank asked as the elevator began its ascent.

Hardcastle nodded, but the 'yeah' he added to this had something in the tone that made Frank give him a hard look. Then the doors were opening—no one in the hallway. Frank looked down at his key and walked toward room 412, with the judge right behind him. When he stopped and reached for the lock, Hardcastle took a breath and said, very quietly, 'damn'.

Frank cast him an inquiring look over his shoulder as he worked the lock.

"It was Mark's room," Hardcastle offered, in explanation.

Frank frowned and opened the door. "Maybe he left something that the maids overlooked."

"Nah," the judge said with a quick shake of his head. "Empty—I was in here this morning." He shook his head again; it seemed like a long time ago. Frank was giving him a curious look.

"And the maid didn't overlook anything. She's the one who let me in."

Frank stepped over to the window and took a slow, appraising look at the streets below. Hardcastle joined him a moment later.

"So," the lieutenant said cautiously, "are we going through with it?"

"Tomorrow. I need to get us three seats on the afternoon flight to Miami. We can figure out the rest of it once we're there." Hardcastle dropped his chin, studying the street scene below them. "I just want him out of here," he finally added. "That's all that matters right now."

He looked up. Frank met his gaze with a worried expression of his own.

"You've got the papers?" the judge asked. "Everything you need?"

"Yeah, it all got shipped out yesterday evening, in the pouch, like you asked. It should have come in on the flight this afternoon. That's what they said, anyway. Hell, I might as well have carried it myself."

"No, you need to keep a low profile. And it's all signed, sealed, everything in order?"

Frank only nodded this time but then he said, "Normally takes at least a week, just to do the paperwork."

"We didn't have a week," Hardcastle insisted.

"That's what I told them." Frank hesitated, then he went on, "But, you know, that meant I didn't get to do a lot of picking and choosing about who I worked with. You understand that?"

Hardcastle nodded back, just once.

Harper gave him a look that seemed to say 'I doubt it'. The judge wasn't very used to that from one of his oldest friends.

"You think I'm making a big mistake, huh?" he finally said quietly.

"I dunno, Milt. You're the lawyer, not me. All I know is that those charges from the Coyote incident—I thought they were dead and forgotten, but they looked mighty real in black and white on the extradition papers." Frank reached up and rubbed his forehead. "God, what _was_ he thinking when he decided to go after Cody that way?" Then he lifted his head and stared at the older man. "And why the hell didn't you tie up the loose ends? Three years and it's _still _just hung up in a procedural stay?"

"Don't think I haven't asked myself that," Hardcastle muttered, in answer to both questions. "But this whole thing is just for show, Frank. We'll use it to get him out from under whatever they're holding him on here, then that'll be that."

"It might not," Frank warned. "Not if the wrong people get their hands on it back in LA."

00000

More phone calls, everything lined up as carefully as it could be. He hadn't had any appetite for dinner, but Frank had brought him something and then politely left him to prod at it without any further comment.

"Tomorrow," he'd said, and then stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Hardcastle took one more look at the food and then pushed it away. He stood by the window and watched nothing at all for a while. Then he pulled the curtains, sat down on the bed, and turned off the lights. It wasn't completely dark. It just felt that way.

00000

_Timing is everything._

He admonished himself again. He couldn't help it; once they'd picked up the package from the consulate, once they'd visited Narbona's office again, and completed the rest of the paperwork, the rest just seemed to be pointless, aggravating waiting.

He did get one piece of news from the Procurador General. "I have met Mr. Appelbaum's _successor,_" he said with some satisfaction. "He left my office not two hours ago." Narbona was smiling. "His name is Henderson. I am fairly certain he is the other man, the one on the boat in the picture."

Hardcastle fished in his pocket for the photos, flipping through them for the best shot.

"Yes," Narbona said, after another quick look. "Most certainly him." He did a poor job at concealing his interest in the rest of the pictures.

Hardcastle flipped through a few more. "I think he's a partner in Applebaum's firm. The name is familiar. Deana must have mentioned him." He put the whole stack on the desk. "I don't know how much these will help."

Narbona picked them up eagerly. "They will be of great assistance, I assure you."

_Not all bribes are money. _Hardcastle managed a small smile, and looked down at his watch yet again. "Time, I think." And if it was a little early, no one had the courage to argue with him.

00000

This time there were two vehicles. Henrico's Rivera stayed sedately behind a more official-looking sedan that contained Alvarez and two guys who looked like palace guard material, though they were in mufti and were purportedly lawyers.

Again their arrival came in the last half of the afternoon but, not surprising after the minor shake-up of the previous day, the warden was in his office. Tall, thin, and anxious, when confronted with what was obviously a show of power from another department, he spent a few minutes making excuses.

Alvarez kept it short and sharp and stationed one of the palace guards close enough to interfere with any attempt at using the phone. After a few more moments of nearly one-sided discussion, and an impressive display of paperwork, the warden finally nodded his acquiescence.

The attorney turned, and said, "They'll bring him up to you."

He was quite clearly addressing Frank, who was wearing his most typical detective's expression, to go with his slightly outdated, and very detective-like, suit and tie.

"He will have to sign, waiving his rights in the extradition process." Alvarez added, as though there might be some doubt.

Frank shrugged; it appeared to be a matter of no concern to him, one way or the other.

Hardcastle stayed in the background, trying not to sweat visibly. It seemed to be taking many more minutes than could be accounted for by the distance between them and the place below. Finally they were ushered down a different hallway—a well-lit one with institutional-green walls—and through a door that was marked '_Sitio de la Interrogación_'.

They waited there, the warden appearing to be nervously conciliatory, Hardcastle barely controlling his increasing worry at the further delay.

Alvarez finally leaned over and spoke, very quietly, "They're trying to get him cleaned up, no doubt."

Hardcastle gave this a nod and a moment later the door opened. He exhaled. _Halfway home_, though he knew they were a long way from that.

They hadn't bothered with handcuffs, he was relieved to see, which was a clear indicator that the warden had already signed off on the problem, at least unofficially. It was Alvarez's man who had McCormick by the arm, more in guidance than control; his walk was a stiff hobble. He was ushered to the table and seemed to sink down into the chair only a moment before he would have wound up on the floor anyway.

The cleaning-up part had been apparently perfunctory; his hair was wet and his face was marginally cleaner, but the clothes were the same ones he'd had on the day before. Alvarez sat down in the chair across from him, speaking fast and low, in English, informing him of the charges in the state of California, and of the request for extradition. He paused for a moment then gave a quick mention of his right to refuse.

Mark cleared his throat rustily and spoke. It was almost a whisper. "You mean I have a right to go back down there?"

Alvarez said nothing.

McCormick seemed to be hesitating and, for one moment, the judge thought maybe he really had lost it, after nearly a week down in that dungeon—that maybe he would refuse to sign. But, no, he was just looking around, obviously still not able to see very well, newly brought up from the pitch-dark below. His gaze finally settled on Hardcastle, still not quite focused.

He frowned. "It _was_ you, then, huh?"

The judge hoped this wouldn't go too far, but he couldn't help it—he answered 'yes'.

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Ah." Mark looked back down at the table, at the paper in front of him, a blinking squint. Alvarez picked up the pen and put it in his hand, then guided him to the spot.

He signed.

00000

After that, things moved with a momentum of their own. Harper had his own set of handcuffs out, a very impressive display of professionalism except that, against all regulations, he cuffed his prisoner's hands in front.

Then he leaned in and said something. It was too quiet for Hardcastle to pick up but Mark merely nodded in return and started to stand. Frank gave him a steadying hand, which rapidly turned into more support. Hardcastle stepped over to the other side as soon as Mark was clear of the chair.

Alvarez stayed behind, giving them only a quick, curt nod of farewell as he gathered up his portion of the papers. Hardcastle had no doubt that he would stay with the warden for as long as possible, to prevent any attempt to reach Ruiz with the news.

Mark said nothing more and seemed to be mostly focused on putting one foot in front of another. It wasn't until they'd made it back down the hallway, and were about to step through the door to the outside, that he spoke again.

"Bright," he muttered, pulling back, almost out of their grip, and raising his hands back up to his face again. "Gimme a sec."

But a second turned into more delay, and Frank finally looked over his shoulder nervously and said, "Gotta go, Mark. Gotta plane to catch. Just keep your eyes closed and walk—we gotcha."

They got him, blindly, to the car, where Olivares already had the door standing open. It was only after they were all inside, and had pulled out onto the road, that Hardcastle allowed himself another deep breath of relief.

It was interrupted by Mark's quiet question. He held up his wrists; still handcuffed, and asked, "Are these for real?"

His eyes were still closed; it was hard to tell who he was directing it at, but it was Frank who answered.

"Sort of." He hesitated at the judge's grimace. "Well," Harper directed this at the judge, "they are, at least until Miami."

He turned further back to face Mark. "Your passport and wallet are missing—the warden claims you arrived with nothing. That was his excuse for not having a record of you by name. You've got no papers and we don't have time to wait for that to get straightened out—all we have is your file—mug shots and fingerprints. You'll have to get back into the States as an extradited prisoner." Frank frowned at the cuffs. "I can take 'em off you now, until we get to the airport."

Mark had let his hands fall back into his lap. His eyes were squinted open just a little.

"Nah," he finally said, with an air of resignation. "Why bother?"

00000

The cuffs did come off, once, in the men's room at San Roque International Airport, where Mark changed into a new set of clothing that Hardcastle had taken from his duffle before they'd checked the bags. He'd fished the St. Jude medal out of his pocket and handed that over as well. He was only surprised that it hadn't been asked for sooner. Maybe Mark had lost hope for it. The old set of clothes went into the trash receptacle, and McCormick submitted to being recuffed without comment.

The gate agent, seeing what was up, shunted them aside briefly, then had them seated, all the way to the back of the plane, before the regular boarding began. Hardcastle supposed it was more out of a desire not to worry the other passengers, than to preserve McCormick's dignity, but he was grateful none-the-less. He might have expected a sharp remark from the man sitting between him and Frank, but there was nothing but silence.

He didn't pay as much attention to that as he might have. One part of him was still watching the tarmac between them and the terminal, expecting to see a half-dozen police vehicles come screeching up at any moment. He didn't abandon that worry all the way through the safety lecture and the dogging of the hatches, maybe not even completely until the landing gear cleared the runway and San Roque dropped back behind them—yellow and green, and once again wholly innocuous.

But as soon as that worry receded, another one crept into its place. He turned slightly and studied the man sitting quietly next to him. McCormick had his eyes closed again, and his head was leaning back against the back of the seat. He might have been mistaken for asleep, but the lines of tension were still very evident and his jaw was set.

He'd seen the bruises when they'd been in the men's room. Most of them looked nearly a week old, but they would serve as a point of embarkation.

"Ribs okay?"

Mark nodded, but didn't open his eyes and didn't say anything else. Hardcastle took it as a sign that he didn't really want to talk right now. He settled back into his own seat, asking nothing more, but keeping one eye on the man beside him.

00000

They were the last ones off the plane in Miami, and were taken aside at customs. Frank had a nice chat with the immigrations authority, who seemed happy to have a break in the routine.

"Your connecting flight?"

"Tomorrow morning," Hardcastle interrupted, knowing it was not much of a reach for him to play old and tired right now. Mark was doing a very convincing young and tired. Frank just looked weary.

The officer frowned. "You can make arrangements with Dade County—they have facilities just west of here—but it'll take some time."

Hardcastle didn't have a chance to intercede again before Frank said, quick and curt, "Won't be necessary. Not worth it."

"Right, then." The officer shrugged and handed the documents back, sparing only a quick, disapproving glance at the handcuff arrangement, looking like he would have preferred something a little more thorough.

They trudged out, Mark staying very docilely right at Frank's side. He hadn't even flinched during the brief exchange. He looked past caring.

00000

Hardcastle made the morning flight arrangements, then found them a hotel not too far from the airport. The cuffs had come off just outside the terminal, quietly, over in a corner, before they found the taxi stand, but it hadn't made any perceptible difference in McCormick's demeanor.

The judge supposed it was only natural, transported from a dungeon to a Miami hotel room in a little over three hours. It had to be something of a shock and there should be a brief period of adjustment. But McCormick's silence was getting a bit telling. Frank seemed relieved to depart for his own room as soon as they'd checked in.

Mark was sitting there, on the edge of one of the beds, a place he had taken almost as soon as they'd stepped into the room. His hands were in his lap, as if the handcuffs, though invisible, still remained.

"A shower?" Hardcastle pointed toward the bathroom. "I can order us something from room service." He felt a twinge of guilt for not having thought of food earlier; he hadn't had much appetite himself until they'd worked the scam all the way through U.S. customs and immigration.

_But of course it worked—because it wasn't really a scam._

Another twinge. He swallowed hard and repeated himself, a little more gruffly. "Go on, get cleaned up."

Mark nodded once, got to his feet, and dutifully headed for the bathroom, Hardcastle finally allowing himself the frown that he'd been holding in check since they'd left the prison.

00000

It was a long stay in the shower; the food had arrived before McCormick re-emerged. In fact, the timing was good enough that the judge suspected the younger man might have been listening for the door. He was back in a t-shirt and jeans. Hardcastle gestured him over. There was a small table by the glass door to the balcony. The drapes were open to the last rays of the setting sun, but Mark seemed to be adjusted—not squinting anymore, at least.

He watched him set to his food with dull efficiency, rather than any appearance of enthusiasm. The conversation was limited to some brief remarks on both sides about the meal. When they were both done, McCormick gathered the plates onto the tray and carried the whole thing back out to the hallway to be picked up, almost as though he was clearing the table back at the estate.

After that, he picked up the duffle and set it on his bed, rummaging through it briefly and withdrawing the copy of Ducat's _Constitutional Law_. Then he pulled the pillow out from under the cover, and stretched himself out on the bed, back against the headboard, with every appearance of a man settling down to catch up a little on his studying.

It was an astonishing performance. Hardcastle would have titled it, 'I'm okay, and leave me alone.' He resisted the urge to applaud as he stood up slowly from the table. He got one more quick glance from McCormick, as he pulled the drapes shut, dropping the room a little more into shadows.

"I think I'll step out and get a little fresh air," Hardcastle said casually. "Wanna come?"

The 'no' was equally casual, after which Mark buried his nose slightly deeper into the book.

The judge nodded once, more to himself than the other man, and stepped out.

00000

Frank's room was one floor down and he tapped on the door lightly, wondering if he'd be welcome. The lieutenant gave him a considering look as he opened it.

"What'ya do, leave him cuffed to the towel rack?" Harper said, with no detectable humor in his tone.

"Nah," the judge stepped in, hands in his pockets and shoulder a little slumped. "He was studying Ducat when I left."

Frank's eyebrows went up at this.

"Well," the lieutenant finally said, after a moment, "that's a version of post-traumatic stress I haven't seen before. From the way you'd described things, I thought he'd be a basket case by the time we got him out."

Hardcastle gave this a short grunt. Harper gestured him into the room.

"Don't tell me you're upset because he's acting normal."

The judge raised his face a little and gave this a half shrug. "I think it's the 'acting' part that worries me."

"Well," Frank shrugged back, "Maybe he's been through worse."

"Than that place?" Hardcastle said with disbelief. "I hope not. Anyway," he sidled past Frank and into the room, "I need to use your phone."

"What's wrong with the one in your room?"

"Come on," Hardcastle glanced down at his watch. "It's almost five there already."

"Starting to have some doubts about your strategy?" Frank asked dryly. "Well, don't bother with the call; I already touched base with my office an hour ago, and, believe me, you don't want them to know where you are right now. They're liable to send a posse. They asked me why I hadn't booked a flight straight on through tonight."

"'They' who?" the judge asked with a worried frown.

"Someone who was delivering a message from someone in the DA's office. Five'll get you ten it originated with Thompson, or somebody who owes Thompson a favor. You know you've annoyed the heck out of him for a long time. He's probably thinking this is a great opportunity to get a little revenge."

"This isn't some kinda game," Hardcastle shook his head.

"No, it's not," Harper replied. "It's a legal proceeding, and you initiated it—_re_-initiated it," he added tersely. "I told you. You should have seen them salivating when I brought it back up to them. The guy who reviewed the file for me was some assistant DA right out of law school, and even he knew a slam-dunk when he saw one. I think he was throwing the term 'incontrovertible' around." Frank shook his head. "He's probably one of Thompson's altar boys. Some of them think he's God's gift to criminal justice. I said I didn't get to pick and choose."

"Doesn't matter," Hardcastle replied firmly, "We'll explain the situation. With the right judge—"

"You're going to be a defense attorney, this time up, Milt. How much influence do you think they'll let you have over that?" There was a silent pause that was itself an answer. Frank finally let out a long breath and asked, "Have you told Mark about all of it?"

"No," Hardcastle took one hand from his pocket and reached for the bridge of his nose, "not yet. I think he already understands it. You saw how he was . . . Dammit. I had to do it. You didn't see that place where they were holding him."

"Then he'll understand," Harper shrugged again. "But just make damn sure he knows what may happen before we get to LA. He's being returned by extradition. You know the spin the DA will put on that. You're going to have a tough sell getting a judge to even set bond."

"He's in my custody," Hardcastle said stubbornly.

"No he's not," Harper returned his stubbornness in kind. "He's not under parole anymore. He's just a guy whose prosecution was put on hold a few years ago. And I'm no lawyer, but I'd have to say that judicial stay was iffy from the moment you left the bench. I'm only surprised it took this long to become a problem." He shook his head again and fell silent.

The moment spun out and Hardcastle's shoulders slumped down again. "I'll tell him," he finally said. "He won't walk into it blind."

He turned and opened the door and left without another word.

00000

The hour was still early, but he wasn't surprised to find Ducat on the floor, face down where it had fallen, alongside a pair of jeans, dropped in an untidy heap. Their owner was curled on his side, under the covers, snoring softly.

It was still early, but Hardcastle understood the motivation completely. He felt as if he'd last slept properly almost a week ago himself. He wasn't quite a good enough liar to deny that there was some relief, as well, in being able to delay the inevitable conversation.

He picked up the book and closed it, setting it on the bedside table. Then he made short work of turning down his own covers and getting ready for bed. He hesitated a moment before he reached for the light-switch, thinking maybe it would be a while longer before Mark felt comfortable with the darkness.

_Nonsense . . . He's out. He'll be fine._

He clicked off the lamp and, hearing no movement from the other bed, settled himself down, at least confident in that much of his judgment.

00000

He opened his eyes again without knowing exactly what had woken him. Not a sound. He lifted his head off the pillow slightly and oriented himself—a hotel room near the airport in Miami.

There was moonlight streaming in through the window, which was odd because, after a moment's thought, he was certain that he had pulled the drapes closed earlier. He half-turned, to look over his shoulder at the source, but not before he'd noticed the white patch on the other bed, covers turned back, empty.

There was a slight breeze through the partly-open door to the balcony—sub-tropical but with an urban hint to it. He sat up slowly, still turned toward that side, and saw the outline of a shape beyond the glass—Mark, sitting, but not in the chair that was out there, but rather on the balcony itself, in a position that was worryingly reminiscent of how he'd found him the day before.

_Only a day ago?_ It seemed longer.

He got up quietly, and stepped around the end of the bed, not bothering with the light; the moon was enough for navigation. And, still quietly, he padded over to the doorway. Mark hadn't moved. He might have almost appeared to be asleep. Hardcastle paused; one part of him was very much inclined to believe that, and just let him be. The other part made him reach out, past the door, and touch the younger man's shoulder lightly.

The t-shirt was cold, damp. _Clammy?_ _He woke up in a cold sweat, in the dark._

That brief and troubled thought was interrupted by a startled glance from the man himself, over his shoulder.

"Sorry," McCormick murmured, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Hardcastle hastened to assure him. "I just . . . woke up," he strayed off lamely. Then, in a brusquer tone, "But what the hell are you doing out here? You're gonna catch a chill or something."

It sounded ridiculous, even to him, but it actually pried a small smile from Mark. It didn't hold, though. He'd turned his face away again, looking out over the vista of sodium lamps and moonlight.

Hardcastle thought he had already retreated back into silence. Then it came, another very quiet, "Sorry." This time it seemed to mean something else.

The judge frowned, then ducked inside and stole the bedspread from where it had fallen at the foot of his bed, folding it down to a manageable size as he carried it back to the door. He draped it over the younger man's shoulders and said, "As long as you're gonna be pig-headed about it." Then he eased past him and into the chair.

Mark pulled the cover around him, then looked up at the judge and said, "What about you?"

"I'm warm-blooded," Hardcastle said. "Besides, this is Miami."

McCormick accepted this reversal of logic without further comment and again it appeared that the conversation would grind to a halt, except that, after a few moments more, he said it one more time.

"Sorry."

This time Hardcastle couldn't ignore it, though it didn't seem like Mark was very eager to elaborate, and he finally had to come right out and ask.

"Sorry for _what_?" He tried to keep the tone of weary exasperation out of his voice.

Mark looked up at him again, appearing puzzled, and then he hesitated, as though it was embarrassing to have to explain. He finally bolted it out. "Sorry that I screwed up. You warned me and everything." He was shaking his head in what seemed to be disbelief, tinged with disgust. "Simple enough that a first year law student could handle it."

Hardcastle opened his mouth, but didn't have time to speak before the kid went on.

"And then I couldn't find him, and I was damned if I was going to come home without doing that one _simple_ thing, so I pulled that stupid stunt—the B&E." Mark had his forehead almost down on his knees. His voice had dropped to a mutter. "And, of course, I got busted. You _warned _me. You've warned me lots of times." He lifted his head again, looking straight ahead, rather than at Hardcastle. "How many palms did you have to grease to get me out of there?"

Hardcastle frowned, not so much at the story, or at how much misimpression he was going to have to correct, but that they'd come back round to ways and means again.

"Well," he started slowly, "once we got to the official level, I, ah, took a different approach."

"Yeah, I got that," Mark ran his fingers back through his hair and turned to look at him, glumly. "I figured you must have been pretty pissed, maybe you were trying to teach me a lesson."

The judge sat stock still, trying to absorb that one. It was a full moment before he found his voice again. "A _lesson_? Hell, no. _That's_ what you thought?"

Mark was staring openly now. "Yeah. Well, you hardly said ten words to me after we got out of there, and you looked kinda . . . tense at the airport."

"Tense?" Hardcastle scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand and then said, "You've got a real way with understatement sometimes, McCormick. Listen, you managed to wander into the biggest mobbed-up mess . . . _I _sent you into it. Applebaum's dead, you knew that didn't you?"

"That guy who came down to get me from . . . from that _cell_," there was a hint of a shudder, "he said something—"

"Yeah, and about the B&E—I don't think anybody even _knew_ you'd been in there, besides Olivares, I mean. The rest of 'em were too busy committing a murder and dealing with the complications."

"But then—"

"And you were one of the complications. Actually, I think you were the one who set the whole thing in motion."

"_I_ got Applebaum killed?"

"Well, Deana did. God, I hope she hasn't figured that out yet. Her husband was a front for mob casino holdings in San Roque. Then you showed up and started asking around for him; hell, someone in customs probably saw his name on the papers when they searched your bag."

Mark nodded. "They asked a lot of questions about why I was visiting. I didn't think too much about it; I'm kinda used to being hassled by authority."

"They couldn't afford to have Applebaum's 'holdings' get scrutinized too closely. They needed a quick regime change, and they sure-as-hell didn't want him meeting up with _you _before they got that done. So, off you went to . . ." he was suddenly aware that he'd intended to say 'the pokey'—and that the term, which was almost reflexive for him, was a wildly inappropriate choice to describe the place where Mark had spent most of the past week.

The kid seemed to pick up on the sudden awkwardness. He even tried for a smile as he said, "Well, I never thought I'd find a place that made the 'adjustment' cells in Quentin look good." But there was a hint of an unasked question behind this casual remark.

"Ah," Hardcastle said, "about that . . . about the extradition . . ."

Mark had gone very quiet, very tense. The silence got a little thick before he finally said, "So that's real, too, huh?" He was giving the judge a studied expression. "But you've got a plan, don't you? I mean, besides me going back inside for ten to fifteen." He'd managed to keep the words light, but the tone was definitely serious.

"Well," the judge looked out toward the skyline for a moment, then dragged his eyes back down. Mark was still watching him intently, "I was thinking we'd get us a reasonable judge, and explain the whole thing—"

"_Reasonable_?" McCormick's eyes had gone wider, and his voice had tracked up a half-octave. "Judge, please don't tell me you're counting on _that_. Damn," he muttered, head back down, his arm draped across his knees and his forehead on that. "It's never worked for me before." The muffled mutter sank lower, and was almost inaudible. "A _reasonable_ judge. Right, ten instead of fifteen . . . and I thought you said you weren't mad at me."

Hardcastle said nothing for a moment. He just let the muttering wind down and slowly come to a stop. He finally cleared his throat and said, "I'd understand it if you didn't want to take your chances."

McCormick's head came up slowly. "Huh?" His eyes were focused and a little narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Hardcastle said slowly, "I could see that maybe you wouldn't want to get on that plane to LA tomorrow."

"But," Mark sat up straighter and cocked his head. "But I'm under arrest, aren't I? I mean . . . Frank, the handcuffs . . ." He frowned.

"Yeah, well—"

"This is some kinda test, right?" Mark interrupted with a sudden, knowing look on his face. "Well," he continued on without waiting for a reply, "I'm really not in the mood for a pop quiz, Hardcase. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a little short on sleep. Thinking rationally may not be my strong suit right now."

The judge, reflecting on what he, himself, had just said, thought maybe the kid wasn't alone in that particular boat, but he recognized an easy out when he saw one.

"Okay," he said glibly, "you passed, A, and maybe we both should get some sleep, okay?"

He got a nod of agreement.

"And tomorrow . . . well, tomorrow I'll figure something out." He got to his feet stiffly. "Come on." He offered the younger man a hand up.

Mark hesitated a moment, then accepted it. "Tomorrow." He nodded again decisively, and with more faith than the judge thought the situation warranted.

And, in a pretty good demonstration of either blind faith or total exhaustion, the kid had managed to climb into bed, turn over, and go right to back to snoring within a few minutes—no apparent nightmares, no sudden awakenings. Hardcastle had left the light on anyway, and Mark had said nothing when he'd walked past it to his bed.

_Give it a day or two._ Hardcastle settled back on his own bed, for what he thought would be more vigil than sleep.

00000

He was up first, reaching to turn off the lamp. It was broad daylight now, almost eight a.m., and the judge thought he'd given the whole sleeping idea enough of a fair try.

McCormick slept on, all for the good. As for himself, he'd lain awake with an edge of uneasiness. They'd had the talk, at least, though it hadn't gone so far as the possibility that Mark might be spending his next night in the LA county jail. He was pretty sure the kid understood that, without having it spelled out.

And, as soon as he could decently call it morning, he got up, pulled on his clothes, and slipped out to make some phone calls.

00000

When he returned to the room, almost an hour later, Mark was up and dressed, and Frank was sitting, his bag at his feet, in one of the chairs. Their 'good mornings' had an edge of curiosity to them.

"They've got a nice restaurant next door," the judge said cheerfully. "Figured we might have some breakfast."

Frank cocked his head. "I thought we had a plane to catch."

"Well," Hardcastle hesitated a moment, "I changed the flight. You guys both looked like you could use the rest. Got us seats on the three p.m. with one stop in Dallas. We won't even have to change planes."

"It _does_ go to LA.?" Frank said cautiously.

"Of course." Hardcastle nodded, not appearing to take offense.

Frank slid his inquiring gaze over to McCormick, who merely shrugged and said, "Don't ask me; I'm used to being kept in the dark."

He'd said it almost casually, and it was followed with a long, silent, nervous pause from the other two men, until Mark finally cracked a small, but very sincere grin, and said, "It's a joke, okay?"

Hardcastle winced and smiled ruefully. Frank just gave them both a look of disbelief.

"Okay," Harper said, finally shaking his head, "breakfast, what the hell, maybe some sightseeing."

00000

The three p.m. out of Miami, with a short layover, deposited them in LAX at 4:35 Pacific Time. Hardcastle had insisted on them taking all of their bags as carry-on. Mark had flown in the routine way, and they'd departed the plane with the rest of the passengers.

As they pushed through the terminal, Hardcastle checked his watch for what had to be the fifth time since the flight had left Dallas. 4:59. He turned to Frank and said, "You better call that wet-behind-the-ears Assistant DA of yours and remind him he's got a bond hearing at 5:45 today."

"_Remind_ him?"

"Yeah, the papers probably just got delivered to him a few minutes ago," Hardcastle smiled. "I asked Sid to make sure he got them _in time_."

"Whose courtroom?"

"Mattie's," Hardcastle grinned outright. "She owed us on this one, and I didn't want to wake anyone else up at five this morning," he added hastily. "Come on; we hafta make a quick stop at the bank."

"There's gotta be some kind of conflict of interest here, Milt," Frank said worriedly.

"No more than Thompson carrying a grudge for the past two years," the judge snapped back. "And you know him—_he's_ not gonna be hanging around the office this late on a Friday."

Then he looked back at McCormick, critically eyeing his jeans and t-shirt. "Would've liked to have run you home and had you put on a suit, but Mattie already knows you clean up pretty good. We'll save the fancy clothes for the real hearing."

As if this was a reminder that they were only heading into the first hurdle, the other two men slowed a bit. But Hardcastle, in full-bore attack mode, was in no mood for shilly-shallying.

"Come on," he nudged them both. "You know how Mattie gets when you keep her waiting. She wants not much talk and a fast dealer."

00000

The wet-behind-the-ears Assistant DA made his first mistake when he asked that the accused be held without bond.

"On what grounds?" Judge Groves asked coolly.

"Flight risk, Your Honor," the DA stammered—smart enough, at least, to realize he'd made some sort of error. "The accused was residing in another country," he looked down at his papers, "The Republic of San Roque."

"Residing? For how long?"

"Ah," he stammered again, consulting his papers and then counting off almost visibly. "Eight days."

"And when, exactly, was the warrant issued for the return of the accused to stand trial?"

The DA looked down for a moment. He didn't have to consult anything for this; he'd drawn up the warrant himself. "Four days ago." Then he added, "Your Honor,' almost as an afterthought.

Mattie turned to the three men at the defendant's table. "And when was the accused informed of the new situation, Lieutenant Harper?"

"Yesterday, about two in the afternoon, Your Honor," Frank answered briskly, trying not to grin.

Mattie turned back to the DA, who was now looking like he wanted to sit down. "_One _day? He must have fought that extradition tooth and nail, Counselor. Bail granted in the sum of $500,000 dollars with the usual provisions. That ought to cover it, even for a desperado like this." She gave a nod in Mark's direction, and then added, "And you might want to consider wearing something a little less casual for your next appearance before the bench, Mr. McCormick."

Mark nodded, not smiling. Court was adjourned. Hardcastle took out the cashier's check, conveniently made out for the required $50,000. The Assistant DA closed his briefcase with a snap, and stalked away.

"It was a good hit," Frank said soberly, "but not a knockout . . . This is only round one."

Mark sank back down into his seat. "Maybe I just should have put up and gone to the lock-up. What the hell, if anything, it's never dark _enough_ there. Thompson'll be pissed. He'll yank that kid off the case and do it himself. He's gonna object to Mattie. The bail will be revoked." He chanted this litany with gradually increasing conviction.

"Have a little faith, kiddo," Hardcastle said. It was surprisingly gentle and broke into the younger man's philippic more effectively than any louder argument would have. "I'll take care of the paperwork, then we'll go home, grill some burgers, and get a good night's sleep for a change."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow . . ." Hardcastle managed a grin was almost infectious, "tomorrow I'll figure something else out."

00000

Hardcastle did the grilling and they ate out on the patio, in the twilight. After that Mark seemed restless, maybe unwilling to go back inside. The judge had managed to keep the conversation fairly light while they ate, but there wasn't any way to waltz around a week in San Roque or the current situation.

Mark finally asked him straight out, "What next?"

The judge pushed his plate away and let out a breath. "Well, we put together a defense, that's what."

"It's a slam-dunk," McCormick replied, his tone was deeply morose, as though the failing light was draining away all of his earlier hopes as well.

"Not necessarily," Hardcastle shook his head. "A jury—"

"A jury?" Mark looked up quizzically. "I thought we were going for a bench trial."

"It'll be your decision, but a judge has to make the call based on the facts and the law, whereas a jury—"

"I didn't do so hot with a jury last time," Mark interrupted anxiously again.

"Well," Hardcastle smiled, "you probably wouldn't have done much better with a bench trial that time, either."

Mark frowned. "So what's different _this_ time?"

"You've got a better lawyer, for one."

This got a thin smile from the kid, and then a long silence, which was finally broken by, "Could I keep the Coyote here while I'm away? I mean, you won't have to insure it, unless you're gonna drive it. I know it takes up space—"

"_Mark_."

It was pre-emptive and harsh, but it got McCormick's attention. "Sorry," he said nervously. "I didn't mean to—"

"And the other thing that'll be different," Hardcastle continued on, "is that _you'll_ be better prepared . . . and I don't mean putting the damn Coyote up on blocks."

Mark nodded once, looking willing, but not much convinced. "Prepared how?"

"Prepared to tell a jury what they need to hear."

"You mean take the stand?" Mark slumped back in his seat. "Oh, Judge, that just means they get to hear I'm guilty right from the source."

Hardcastle shook his head again. "I don't mean just about that night . . . but it'll do for a start. You'll need to write it all down for me—everything you remember, right up from when you heard about Flip's death. I mean _everything_ . . . Damn," he frowned, "It's been three years; I should have had you do this a long time ago."

McCormick gave him a sober look and said, "If you'd asked me to do this a long time ago, I would have said . . . well," he quirked a half smile, "what I would've said wouldn't have been very polite." The smile faded. "Anyway," he said, after a long breath, "it's not like I've forgotten any of it."

"Okay," the judge got up slowly. "You start with that."

Mark nodded.

"But it's not like you need to rush," Hardcastle added quietly. "Get some sleep tonight. Hell," he looked up at the now-dark sky, "it's almost midnight in San Roque."

"Hah," Mark said, as he stood and started to gather the plates, "it's always midnight there."

00000

He was up earlier than he needed to be again the next morning, but at least the people he wanted to contact weren't three hours behind him. The light in the second floor window of the gatehouse was still on, just as it had been in the middle of the night, but that, he figured, did not necessarily mean that McCormick had been awake.

_Just give it a few more days._

He'd spent part of his own night with the kid's file, and most of the rest working out his strategy. He'd only come to a complete halt once, around four in the morning, when he'd had a sudden recollection of Frank's words to him in that Miami hotel room—'_You're a defense attorney now._'

Well, of course he'd be, if it came to that, and he knew it very well might. _It's your mess, now fix it._ But that it was such a natural assumption—_not just Frank, Mark assumed it, too; you didn't even ask him—_it was some kind of faith that the kid had, even in his most worried moments—_if anybody can fix it, you can._

It had driven any faint notions of sleep from his mind. He'd said that there was no rush, but he knew that for the next step, timing was everything.

Now that it was daylight, he felt a restless urge to get on with what he wanted to do—that and maybe a desire to avoid answering any more anxious questions from McCormick. He took one last, sustaining swig from his coffee cup, jotted a note—vague but hopefully comforting—and then headed out the door.

00000

The building that housed the DA's offices was his fourth stop. Thompson had been surprisingly amenable to a meeting, even though it was Saturday. Hardcastle hadn't tried to disabuse him of the notion that he might be looking for a plea bargain. The judge doubted that any such deal would be offered, or even entertained. It was more like the DA was looking forward to saying no.

He'd been in and out of this place dozens of times in the past few years, but on this occasion he paused on the curb, nearly the same place he'd been standing that Saturday morning two years earlier, when Samuel Tilton's goons had kidnapped McCormick in broad daylight from a spot not fifty feet away. The memory was up near the surface just then, and the same cold fear, much more than a mere echo of recollection, lay coiled in the pit of his stomach.

He came to the sudden realization that he'd meant every word of it when he'd offered the kid the chance to run, back in Miami, just as he'd meant it, two years ago, when he'd told Frank he wasn't giving up one damn thing more—even if it mean throwing everything he'd stood for down on the heap and stepping over it.

"Enough is enough," he muttered to himself, and he turned and strode into the building.

00000

Most of the third floor offices were deserted and quiet. Hardcastle was half-surprised that Thompson hadn't wanted at least a little audience for what was to be a coup de grace—at least that puppy of an Assistant DA, the judge would have thought, to show him how it was supposed to work.

Instead it was just Thompson himself who stepped out of his corner office at the sound of the outer door opening. He'd obviously been waiting with some anticipation, but he knew how to put on a show of cool professionalism as he ushered the judge in.

Hardcastle took the seat across from the desk and began with punctilious politeness. "I'm glad you could make time to see me on such short notice."

Thompson smiled the smile of the padrone, waiting to hear the request of a supplicant. He said nothing.

"I don't usually discuss my trial strategy with opposing counsel," Hardcastle went on smoothly, "but I thought, in this case, I ought to give you fair warning."

It was the change in tone, as much as the words, that appeared to melt the smile from Thompson's face. "Why, you—"

But Hardcastle still had the floor, and intended to keep it. "I was probably the only one who was disappointed that Sam Tilton didn't survive to see trial two years ago. I think it would have been a heck of an interesting session when I took the stand—McCormick, too, for that matter. But, hell, this'll be almost as good."

"What the—"

"We're gonna ask for a jury, just so you know, and Mark _will_ take the stand."

This got him a quick sneer as Thompson briefly regrouped.

"Don't worry. I won't leave that kid of yours much left to cross-examine, or were you gonna do it yourself? No matter, I'm gonna have him lay it all out on the table. It's the only way to go on this one. I think you'll be surprised, though; McCormick's come a long way in the testifying department. He knows how to tell it straight and no smart remarks . . . okay, maybe a few, just to keep the jury awake." Hardcastle smiled.

"Anyway, that'll be just the start. I figure the other story will be just as interesting. Hell, the finger in the wood-chipper, that alone'll be worth the price of admission. Juries _love_ stuff like that. Everybody'll be awake when he gets to that part about you trying to have a warrant served on him just a couple of minutes after we'd kept Tilton from adding him to his list of victims."

Hardcastle dropped his voice a notch, almost speaking to himself, "Of course he was kinda out of it right then, might not remember that part too well but, hell," he looked up at the other man, smiling brightly, "I've got Lieutenant Harper and," he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, "I've already got a preliminary list of the Ventura County guys who witnessed it. They've got a real good retention rate up there, must be the benefits."

He put the list down on the desk. Thompson didn't reach for it.

"Of course the warrant is a matter of public record, and that you had it rescinded, at least that much is in your favor. And then the part about Riley—the leak in your office. I guess it wasn't _really_ a cover up, maybe _some_ people won't see it that way, you trying to shovel it all off on McCormick."

Hardcastle sat back, smiling. "I just think it's gonna be real interesting. Maybe it'll even get a little press. You know, the wood chipper angle."

"He's a two-time loser," Thompson sputtered.

"Yeah," Hardcastle shrugged, "'Bout that. If we have to go back that far, I've got Melissa Marshall—she's the old girlfriend, the one that reported the car stolen. Have you met her, by any chance? Oh, you're in for a treat. I'd like to meet the guy from your office who prepped her. Even the feds gave up on her, I heard. You must have a genius working for you."

"But you were the _judge_ in that case—you'll look like a fool."

"Maybe I was," Hardcastle said flatly. "But at least I learn from my mistakes."

Thompson merely stared for a moment. The judge didn't blink. A long moment passed.

"The most I could offer," the DA finally said, slowly, and with almost painful reluctance, "would be _nolle prosequi_."

"I think I'm gonna tell him to just roll the dice and go for an acquittal," Hardcastle said stubbornly.

"He won't get a choice if I refuse to proceed."

"Damn," the judge tapped his fingers once on the desk and took back his list. "And I was starting to look forward to it."

00000

It was early afternoon before he pulled back into the drive at Gulls Way. Mark was not in sight but he'd apparently made a start on the lawn. The front door was unlocked, and the man in question was on the sofa, in the den, with a copy of California Rules of Evidence open face down on his chest, rising and falling gently in time with the snore.

_Faith or exhaustion_. Hardcastle shook his head and left that one alone.

He noticed the yellow legal pad on his desk, and stepped over quietly to retrieve it. Mark's handwriting, double-spaced to leave room for notes and corrections. He picked it up and leafed through it. Eight pages.

Mark turned over restlessly and the book slid to the floor with a quiet rustle and a thud. He didn't open his eyes. _Exhaustion._

Hardcastle tucked the pad under his arm and retreated to the kitchen, where he made a ham sandwich and sat down to read. He wasn't very far along before he realized that McCormick had pulled no punches on this one. And, no, he hadn't forgotten any of it, in fact, there was more there than the judge had expected, a lot of anger, a whole lot of fear. He half-wondered how much of the latter was really a reflection of the past week.

He flipped the pages back down and pushed the pad away, suddenly very glad that he wasn't going to have to put him on the stand. _The first rule of examining a witness—never ask a question you don't already know the answer to._ And he thought, somehow, even with these words in front of him, that he would never know the answers to all of the questions.

He heard some rustling noises from the hallway, followed shortly after by the kid, standing in the doorway looking tousled and bleary, running his fingers through his hair. "Didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, well, you looked like you needed the sleep."

Mark pulled out the chair across the table and sat down, giving him a hard study. "I could say the same about you."

"Oh," Hardcastle shrugged, "it's just the jet lag. I'll get caught up—"

Mark shook his head.

"—especially now that it's all over."

The younger man looked up sharply, as though he wasn't quite sure he'd caught it.

"Sorry, it's just a _nolle prosequi_, best I can do." From the grin on the kid's face, he knew that he'd gotten that far in Procedures. "There'll still have to be a hearing, and it won't be official until Thompson puts it in the record, but I don't think he'll back down from backing down."

"But how—?"

"I told him my strategy," Hardcastle smiled. "The thought of you taking the stand was more than his orderly mind could handle."

Mark looked at him doubtfully and finally said, "It's okay if you don't want to explain it all to me; I understand—"

The judge flinched a little at this much perception.

"—but," McCormick hesitated, "it's real, isn't it?"

Hardcastle smiled and nodded. Mark whooped and grinned, and then sat back in his seat and finally let the grin settle into a smile, with an edge of concern. "But you look like you haven't slept in about three days. Really. Please. Will ya stand down for a bit?"

The judge nodded again.

"I promise, I won't mow the lawn or anything. Very quiet." Mark grinned again.

"Such sacrifice." Hardcastle was on his feet. He left the pad on the table and gave one backward wave of his hand as he trudged out of the room. "We'll talk some more about it."

"Later," Mark said.

"Yeah."

**Epilogue**

McCormick let him sleep clear through to dinner, and the judge thought even that probably would have been set aside if he hadn't woken up on his own. He noticed the pad was gone from the kitchen table, disappeared, as if it had never been.

They'd eaten lasagna in companionable silence, and after that adjourned to the den. Mark seemed no less quiet than he'd been the past two days, but there was somehow less tension to it. It was more contemplative.

The movie was merely an excuse for sitting there and not having to make any conversation beyond the most superficial comments, and, when it was over, Mark needed no excuses about fatigue; he still looked genuinely tired. Despite all of that, there was no question in Hardcastle's mind that things were okay, and that the quiet didn't harbor anything deeper.

The judge, unusually, saw him to the door, and then watched him stroll across to the gatehouse. The first floor light went on, then off. The one on the second floor was next to come on, and he stood there a moment watching it.

_A few days more. It takes time._

And then it, too, went off.

He smiled and closed the door.


End file.
